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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23784376">Marred, Unwittingly</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapcake/pseuds/mapcake'>mapcake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mass Effect Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Post-Mass Effect 3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:02:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,766</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23784376</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapcake/pseuds/mapcake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aria does not like being marked. Marks signify ownership, and no one <em>owns</em> Aria. But Shepard is a force of nature that leaves imprints on everyone she meets, regardless of what they want—and Aria is no exception.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Shepard/Aria T'Loak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Marred, Unwittingly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rich, dark brown lipstick smeared across Aria’s lips, and onto the corner of one cheek. An echo of the intensity of their passion in ink. Aria’s chest heaves, and her tongue sneaks out for a taste. There is an irritated, predatory gleam in her eyes when she glosses over the wax on her skin that makes Shepard’s blood sing.</p><p>She lets Aria pull her harder into her lap—even wiggles her hips and moans a little, because she knows Aria likes to hear it. It’s a cheap trick, but it works, and she feels Aria’s hands grabbing her ass, her mouth pressing hot against her pulse.</p><p>Normally, Shepard would preen at having captured Aria’s attention so completely—but today, there is a little red dot wavering on Aria's forehead. Her body moves on instinct. She throws a hasty barrier over them, but Shepard is a vanguard by trade, preferring instead to attack so fiercely that her enemies do not have the time to shoot, so her barriers are shaky at best. To compensate, she tucks Aria’s head down to her chest, and curls her shoulders protectively around her, bracing for impact.</p><p>The sniper round punches through the barrier as if it is made of paper, and rips a hole through Shepard’s left shoulder before burying itself into Aria’s beloved couch. Shepard cries out, pain exploding through her body as her left arm drops uselessly to her side. Aria snaps out of her daze, and slams her own barrier down just in time to catch a second bullet, which crumples harmlessly against the shield. With Aria holding the barrier, now, Shepard is able to roll off of her and onto the floor, and together, they turn towards the origin of the shots, fury mirrored in their eyes. A shockwave blasts into the sniper’s general vicinity; it is weakened by Shepard’s crippled arm, but it is still enough to send crates and equipment flying in the catwalk, and make the clubgoers in Afterlife scream and scatter. In the split second that everything is in the air, Aria picks out a body amongst the wreckage, and catches it in a powerful lash, whipping it down to their feet with a sickening crunch.</p><p>“Eclipse,” Aria growls, upon seeing the insignia on the sniper’s helmet.</p><p>Shepard kicks the broken body onto its back. It does not move. “Cocky bastards.”</p><p>It is then that Aria’s guards come scrambling up the stairs. She slams them all into the floor. When she speaks, her voice is ice and steel, rage simmering just barely beneath her skin.</p><p>“Who the <em>fuck</em> let this vermin set up on the catwalks?”</p><p>“Aria—! I can’t—breathe!”</p><p>“I don’t care.” She bears down on them harder. Something snaps, and one of the batarians howls in agony. “Who. Was. In charge. Of the catwalks.”</p><p>“S-Silaf!” an asari cries. They all gasp when Aria releases them, except for the batarian, who continues to clutch his leg and scream. Aria makes a disgusted noise, and throws him down the stairs, out of earshot. She glances down callously at her pathetic, wheezing guards.</p><p>“You have two hours to bring him to me—alive—or you won’t be.”</p><p>The guards scamper off with pale faces and panicked affirmations. Once they are out of sight, Aria takes a deep breath, and lets it out, slow and controlled. She turns around. While she was interrogating her guards, Shepard had dug out the medigel stashed in the couch. She’s on her second dose, but while she was fumbling around with the first one, her good hand got so slick with blood that she is now struggling to get the safety cap off the second injector.</p><p>Aria kneels onto the floor beside her. She takes the medigel, her fingers brushing the inside of Shepard’s wrist, pops the lid off, and slides the needle into her shredded shoulder.</p><p>“One more,” says Shepard. Aria nods, and injects a third dose of medigel. Shepard sighs as the wound finally knits shut, and the pain subsides to a more manageable level. It won’t be enough to heal her completely, but she can already feel a haze starting to settle in her mind, both from blood loss and being overdosed on the sedative in the medigel—she will not compromise her lucidity any further.</p><p>“You need a doctor,” says Aria.</p><p>“I’ve dealt with worse,” says Shepard. She tries very hard to keep herself from slurring. She thinks it works.</p><p>“It’s not up for debate.”</p><p>The only reason that Shepard does not cross her arms is because she cannot move one of them. She settles for a stubborn glare, instead. “I’ll see them when we get Silaf.”</p><p>They stare each other down, so close that Shepard can feel Aria’s breath on her skin. Red blood is splattered across one side of Aria’s face, completely obscuring the brown lipstick from before. There is something heavy and grave in her eyes that Shepard vaguely remembers seeing when they retook Omega, all those years ago. She does not know what to do with it.</p><p>Finally, Aria relents. “Fine.” She parts her lips like she wants to say something else, but then she purses them and looks away, making a face like she just ate something sour. “That barrier was shit, by the way.”</p><p>Shepard bristles. “Your security is shit. And my lipstick is still on your face.”</p><p>Aria scowls, and rubs a hand over her mouth as she gets back up. Without looking at down, she extends her free hand to Shepard, who takes it and lets herself be pulled up. She wavers a little on her feet, woozy from the vertigo and the medigel, but Aria’s grip is firm, and although they bicker some more as they head out of Afterlife, when Shepard stumbles again, Aria is there to hold her steady.</p><p>---</p><p>A mess of deep red smeared in equal parts over Aria’s cunt and Shepard’s own face. They’d been too impatient to wait until after the gala to fuck, and had ducked into some sort of library with an intricate, archaic lock on the door that now lies in pieces on the floor. A good decision, too; Shepard would’ve never been able to see Aria like this in their hotel room, with her sleek, black and white dress rucked up to her waist, crimson painting her thighs like human blood, her eyes closed and her head tilted towards to window so that Illium’s moon illuminates the perfect slice of her panting profile.</p><p>“You look good in red, babe,” Shepard purrs against Aria’s stained thigh. Aria growls and glares, then drags Shepard up off her knees by the fist in her hair. The action draws out a gasp that turns into a hiss when Aria’s teeth close over Shepard’s bottom lip, biting so hard that she tastes iron.</p><p>“That hurts, you bitch.”</p><p>“Then keep your bratty little mouth shut next time.” A quick burst of biotics flips their positions, with Aria pressing Shepard into the wall, and bunching her midnight blue gown up in her hands. “Hold this.”</p><p>“You realize we still have to go back to the gala, right? How am I supposed to go back with a split lip <em>and</em> a wrinkled dress?”</p><p>Aria grabs Shepard’s shoulder and flips her so that her back is to her chest, not bothering to cushion the impact of her head hitting the wall.</p><p>“Ow!”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“Or what?”</p><p>Aria’s hand is suddenly between Shepard’s legs, cupping her soaked panties. “Or I leave you here,” she says, as she grinds the heel of her palm into Shepard’s clit, “wet and wanting and a mess, and I don’t touch you again for a week.”</p><p>And she will. Shepard knows this; she’s done it before. Her lips press into a thin, frustrated frown to silence her barbed rebuttal. Aria waits one, two, three beats, before she presses flush against Shepard’s back, and takes the shell of her ear in between her teeth, biting just hard enough to make those broad, brown shoulders stiffen.</p><p>“Good girl,” Aria croons. Her cool breath on Shepard’s slick, reddened ear makes her shiver despite the indignity of the pet name. Shepard is no girl, but a woman, a warrior, a phoenix queen that has risen again and again from the ashes of war—and there is nothing she hates more than to be recognized as anything less.</p><p>So she keeps her mouth shut, but she reaches back to dig her nails into whatever flesh she can find, and she moves her hips deliberately, forcing her own rhythm onto Aria’s ministrations, taking pleasure on her own terms when Aria tries to withhold it. At one point, she turns her head to glance sidelong at Aria; frustration furrows the tattoos on her brows, and her teeth are biting an angry mark onto Shepard’s skin, but the spark in her eyes is hungry, excited—thrilled from having found a challenge that finally meets her match.</p><p>---</p><p>A crisp lipstick kiss on the side of Aria’s neck. Somehow, the dark purple stamp had managed to survive the sex, the nap, <em>and</em> the water from the bath that Aria and Shepard are currently sitting in. Shepard can only admire its tenacity. She shifts her head on Aria’s shoulder, and carefully runs her thumb under the mark, so that she does not smudge it.</p><p>The bath oil and the shimmery, gold petals floating on the water infuse the room with a warm, floral scent. Shepard spent nearly six months looking for another bottle of oil a while back, only to discover that those particular Thessian flowers had went extinct over three centuries ago, and Aria had gotten a hold of one of the last few blooms when she was still a sharp-tongued lieutenant eyeing the throne.</p><p>“Move forward a bit,” says Aria. Her words rumble soothingly against Shepard’s back. She does as she is told, scooting forward, then twisting around, propping an elbow on her knee and resting her chin on her palm to watch Aria move. She biotically lifts a wide toothed comb and a bottle of conditioner from the shower, resting them neatly on the rim of the bathtub. Shepard raises a brow.</p><p>“Are you sure you know how to do this?”</p><p>Aria’s entire body stills. “Then I won’t,” she says icily. She starts to rise out of the tub. Shepard’s heart leaps to her throat.</p><p>“No, Aria, wait—” She grabs Aria’s arm. Aria looks down at her hand like she wants to snap it off at the wrist. Mercifully, she doesn’t, but she is tense beneath Shepard’s grasp, and she is still hovering half out of the tub. The air in the room feels both too hot and too cold.</p><p>“That’s not what I meant,” says Shepard imploringly. Aria’s stony façade does not falter. Shepard drops her gaze, and sighs. She runs a hand through her hair, dislodging a streak of grey from her messy ponytail. She looks back up. Presses her lips together. Forces the next two words out.</p><p>“Please stay.”</p><p>Aria has perfected her masks over the centuries, and although Shepard has known her for a long time, for a human, she still cannot read her. She is sure that even if she had an asari’s lifespan, she would <em>still</em> be unable to decipher Aria completely. Not that it matters—there is no flowery poetry in what they share. What they have now was built from years of hard work and harder compromises, two willful egos clashing until one of them inevitably reaches for too much too soon, and they fall back, licking their wounds, only to do it all again the next day, week, month.</p><p>A resolute fire burns in Shepard’s eyes as she locks gazes with Aria. She does not need to be able to read this particular mask to know that they will move past this.</p><p>No words grace her ears, but Aria’s hand squeaks against the wet rim of the tub, and the water sloshes quietly as she sinks back into place behind Shepard, who shifts to accommodate her. Their legs brush underwater. Shepard exhales, and releases her hold on Aria’s wrist.</p><p>Gently, Aria frees Shepard’s hair from its ponytail, fluffing it out a little so that it brushes the nape of her neck like always. Her hand skims over Shepard’s shoulder, lingering on the large, gnarled scar from the sniper a couple months ago, before moving up to tuck a stray lock of hair away from her face. Out of the corner of her eye, Shepard watches the short, black curl slip slowly from her fingertips.</p><p>“Get your hair wet.”</p><p>Shepard dunks her head into the bath obediently. Aria does not do things in half-measures, but there is only so much that an asari could possibly understand about human hair. She is curious about how she will do.</p><p>Long, slender fingers slide up Shepard’s cheeks, and into her hairline. Aria massages her scalp with firm stokes back and forth, moving slowly to the center of her head, then down to her neck. Shepard groans when she reaches the base of her skull, and her head drops forward, her eyes slipping shut.</p><p>Next, the conditioner. Shepard hears her pump the bottle a couple times, and she sighs when Aria massages the conditioner into her scalp. When she’s done with that, she distributes it throughout the rest of her hair gently. She catches on a couple snags, but she never pulls through them. Instead, she runs the wide toothed comb delicately through Shepard’s hair, working from the bottom of the lock up to the knot, so that it goes through smoothly, and never tugs on her scalp.</p><p>“Oh my god,” Shepard mumbles, lulled into a trance by Aria’s deft fingers.</p><p>Aria huffs, amused. She rubs some earthy scented oil onto her fingers, and massages Shepard’s neck in firm circles while she lets the conditioner sit. Shepard lets out a long, obscene, wholly involuntary moan.</p><p>“Do that again.”</p><p>“Beg me,” says Aria.</p><p>Shepard scowls. She does not beg.</p><p>Aria chuckles, and massages the spot again, and Shepard’s anger melts alongside her muscles with another throaty moan.</p><p>When Shepard has been reduced to a suitably boneless puddle of goo, and a tingly sensation replaces all thought in her brain, Aria wipes the oil from her hands, and starts to rinse the conditioner from Shepard’s hair. A light touch on the bottom of Shepard’s chin prompts her to tip her head back. Aria draws a bubble of water from the tub with her biotics, and keeps one hand angled over Shepard’s eyes as she lets the water trickle from the bubble like a little shower. When three bubbles have been depleted, she tips Shepard’s head forward again, and runs her hands through her hair, checking for any residual conditioner. Finding none, and satisfied with her work, Aria leans back against the tub with a sigh. One hand slips underwater to tug on Shepard’s hip; she takes the hint, and scoots back so that they are flush against each other again.</p><p>They lapse back into silence. The hand on Shepard’s hip traces idle shapes on her skin. Shepard reaches out for Aria’s free hand on the tub, and brings it up to her lips, pressing a tender kiss onto the inside of Aria’s wrist, where her heart beats slow and steady.</p><p>A harsh, blaring alarm makes them both snap their heads to the door—Aria’s omni-tool reprimanding them for spending too long in leisure. Shepard groans, and Aria throws her omni-tool across the room with a burst of biotics. The alarm stops—for now.</p><p>“Get up,” says Aria.</p><p>Shepard makes a big, fussy show of not wanting to move, and gets bodily shoved out of the tub for her efforts. She grabs a towel off the wall hanger, and very spitefully does not offer one to Aria, who swats the back of her head in return. Grumbling, she picks her t-shirt up off the floor to dry her hair with it. When she rises, she finds Aria standing in front of the mirror, tracing a finger over the skin beside the pristine purple kiss mark on her neck.</p><p>“Leave it there,” says Shepard. “Don’t you think it deserves to stay, after surviving all of that?”</p><p>Aria scoffs. “No.” She takes out a makeup wipe, and swipes it over her neck decisively.</p><p>But the mark is a stubborn, persistent, relentless little thing. When Aria tilts her head to inspect it again, it is smudged, yes, but it is still clearly recognizable—a bold, unyielding stain on Aria’s otherwise perfect skin.</p>
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